


As long as you're mine

by hobbitsandlocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angstangstangst, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV John Watson, Post Reichenbach, ashdfjsfh, john is really messed up after sherlock's death okay, lestrade tries to get John laid, news flash it doesn't work, smoochies at the end don't worry, why am i typing all these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsandlocks/pseuds/hobbitsandlocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after Sherlock's death, John is still picking up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As long as you're mine

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my fanfic folder on my computer and, after rereading it, decided to post. Enjoyyyy

The teakettle whistles, rattling the stove grate.  I flinch, flex my shoulder.  After I set down the paper I wasn’t actually reading, I get up and pad over to the kitchenette, turning off the flame.  The cabinet door is slightly ajar—it still doesn’t close right after one of his explosives ended up sending debris ricocheting around the room.  My mouth twitches upwards, and then—

 

oh.

 

My lips purse as I open the cupboard, fumbling blindly around for my mug.  I was never really tall enough to reach these, should probably get outfitted with new ones at some point, even though I’m not really one for home improvements.  Finally, after some effort, I grab the ceramic with fleeting triumph.  The feeling of small accomplishment dies, and I’m left feeling stupid for even entertaining the possibility of feeling proud of grabbing a cup from the cabinet.  I avoid that nagging voice in my conscience, the one that points out how even menial tasks now require effort, an observation that should trigger an upwelling of related inferences about my emotional state.  But fuck it, I’m staunchly resolute in my denial.  I’m alright.  After all, the brain was his area, not mine.

 

I pour my tea and walk back to my chair, easing into the cushiony embrace.  My cane leans against the armrest, smiling that awful, triumphant grin that screams _INVALID_ in all caps.  For an injury rooted completely in my psyche, it’s fucking powerful.  Even though it’s midafternoon, I barely register my hunger.  I must have forgotten to eat, but screw it, twenty-four hours of abstinence from nourishment won’t kill me.  The tea steeps until it’s freezing, bitter on my tongue. 

 

An hour passes in a minute.  A day passes in an hour.  Weeks bleed together.

 

***

The fire used to blaze around this time of year, illuminating the usually dreary flat with smoky, intimate undertones.  Everything glowed, as if plated in gold leaf.  Tinny melodies poured from that blasted violin, things that I assume were traditional but don’t really know for sure—he never really adhered to tradition, after all.  We would sit in our respective armchairs, scooted close, the cold used as an excuse.  He would lounge, all long limbs and languid speech brought on by a tad too much eggnog, and I would laugh, enjoying this side of him, the side that wasn’t so closed off in pressed suits and layers and layers of that aggravating ego.  As the nights wore on, we’d move to the couch, muttering about stiff backs and how chairs were the greatest plight against the human lumbar vertebrae since equine transport.  One of us would switch on the telly as an alibi.  Ignoring the length of the sofa, we’d sit close, occasionally resting an arm or a leg close to the other.  Those fleeting moments of contact radiated heat and warmth in a way akin to that of the fire, by then only a few glowing embers.  We’d fall asleep like that, myself leaned against his shoulder, willing to abandon all pretenses but still clinging to sleep as a cover.  Just in case. 

 

Eventually, the fire would die, unbeknownst to us, blanketing the flat in darkness.

 

***

 Greg tells me I need to get a flatmate.  He offers himself as a candidate, but it’s obvious he’s hesitant.  My sleeplessness brands itself on my face, in the bruised circles under my eyes and my disheveled hair.  I look like hell.   

In an attempt to normalize my near-hermit self, Greg takes me to a bar.  He sits me down at the counter, orders me a beer and shoves me at some girl.  She’s pretty, but she’s got this vapidity behind her eyes that everyone seems to possess nowadays.  At least, when compared to him.  I smile politely, decline her vaguely sexual offers, grab my cane and leave.  The air is crisp, and it reddens my cheeks, forcing me to hunch my shoulders against its bite.  Against my hand in my pocket, my phone vibrates.  Text, assumedly from Greg. 

 

_Where are you?_

I ignore him. 

_I’m going to take the nice approach, but if you continue to ignore me, that’ll change._

I am steadfast, my eyes on the pavement.  His concern borders on tedious.

_Alright then.  Do I need to remind you that it’s been three years?  THREE FUCKING YEARS.  You need to get laid, mate._

 

A spectacularly long-winded text.  I turn my phone off. 

It’s true, though.  I haven’t slept with anyone since That Day, haven’t had the desire.  Satiating my libido was entirely too much effort, and the few seconds of gratification after successfully bedding someone would be a poor substitute for the resolute hollowness that’s carved a home in my guts.  It’d come crashing back, knocking the wind out of me, and I’d feel worse for trying to prevent it with something as shabby as an orgasm.  I’m better off just ignoring everything, putting it in a box, then incinerating that package in the morgue’s crematorium.  Little ashen flakes of feeling would cling to me, but they’d fail to coalesce and I’d be none the worse for wear. 

 

I realize I’m back at 221B.  My listless feet carried me here, as if on autopilot.  Sighing, I ascend the steps.  “Night, Mrs. Hudson,” I call out once inside, not really caring if I rouse her from sleep.  The stairs are an effort.  My cane taps out a tympanic bass.

 

The flat is cold.  No fire.  No firewood, for that matter.  I don’t feel like going upstairs to my bedroom, so I opt for the sofa, laying down with what seems like a creak.  I press my face into the couch cushions.  They smell like cigarette smoke and wine and cologne, forming such a presence in my olfactory nerve that I’m nearly fooled into thinking he’s here.  Of course, some subconscious wiring alerts my tear ducts, and oh joy, those little cremated fragments of feeling have reformed, biting into my gut and chewing at my throat, choking me.  It suddenly hits me that he’s gone, he’s really fucking gone, my best friend and God knows what else.  He’s dead and I’m alone, worse than after the war because then, there was not an absence of him, but just a general loneliness.  Now, my isolation is specific, there is a precisely torn hole in my core that no one can fill, no amount of booze or tea or sex.  My hands ball into fists to quell the shaking.  I realize my teeth are chattering and I bite my lip.  A coppery taste fills my mouth.  In the darkness, it’s hard to discern, but I can vaguely make out the shape of my gun on the shelf.  My teeth dig harder into my lip, drawing out rivulets of blood in their wake.  Scrubbing the heels of the hands against my eyes, I hunch forward, choking a little, but mostly just trying to regain my ragged breaths in a poor façade of calm. 

 

The doorbell rings.

 

A steady stream of expletives enters my mind.  I debate feigning sleep, but then my jittery legs assert their intentions by standing up.  I grab my cane, making my way to the door so I can buzz whoever deigns such importance so as to disrupt me at this infernal hour.  I then wonder from what I’ve been disrupted.  _Goddamnit,_ I think.  _Keep this up, and I’ll turn into him.  Drug habits to boot._  Leaning heavily on my good leg, I pass the minutes with impatience.  When I finally assume whoever rang actually had no intention of coming upstairs, a dull knocking thuds against the door.  Tentatively, I open it, and.

 

Blank. One second.  Two.  Maybe a lifetime.  I don’t take in the whole sight, just pieces.  My occipital lobe seems to have given out.  There’s a sliver of grey coat.  A flash of blue scarf.  Of raven hair.  I take a shred of comfort in the fact that the truly insane aren’t aware of their lunacy, but I still don’t trust my eyes.  My hand extends, as if of it’s own accord, and the tactile influx at this action nearly knocks me over.  I run my fingertips across the wool of his coat, clench my fist in his scarf.  The cane clatters to the floor as I run my hand up into his hair. If he’s a mirage, then my mind is damn crafty, as this sensory overload seems real.  That’s what sets me off laughing, the fact that my brain can so easily recreate someone I haven’t seen in years.  “Fucking hell,” I cackle.  “I’m mental.”  This realization, spoken aloud, only sends another peal of laughter through my system.  The rumble of his voice shuts me off, however.  Hallucinations shouldn’t talk, that would be indicative of something much worse than sleep deprivation and grief.  Schizophrenia.  Early-onset Alzheimers.  A host of other self-diagnoses rocket into my brain.  They settle there, taking control of my nervous system and send a tremor coursing through my veins.  I look up, and my eyes finally drink in the sight of the man that I lost.

 

His eyes are hollow, sunken but alight; I would say he’s high, but his pupils are normally sized.  Stubble has finally grasped onto his jawline, and it’s endearing, in a way, softening the harsh corners of his face.  His hair now has a few streaks of silver running throughout, but no new lines are present on his face to indicate age.  The coat hangs loosely of his shoulders; he’s thin, bordering on emaciated.  This is not the same man as the one that stood on that hospital roof.  This one has lived on the streets, on the run, has rediscovered the wonderfully masking quality of narcotics.  There’s no way my brain could be reassembling this image from the memories I have, so I suck in a gasp.  I don’t know for how long I hold it, only that when I exhale, his name is borne as a question. 

“Sherlock…?”

My voice is high and tremulous in my own ears.  Unsure of what to do, my hands curl around his biceps, pulling him closer.  I need him for balance, using his infectious stability as ballast.  His eyes bore into my own, those simultaneously colorless and multicolored gems of optics, and I swallow hard.  I allow myself to look at the only part of his face I haven’t run my eyes over a thousand times already, and before I can assess what I see there, his lips are pressing into mine and my breath is punched out of my lungs.  It’s rapturous, his presence, and it immediately surpasses any of my imaginings as we stand in this doorway between the past and present.  My hand tightens its hold in his scarf, and I pull him forward.  We fumble until he’s pressed me against the wall, and my muscles weaken as I allow myself to finally accept that this isn’t a hoax or some awful prank.  Sherlock’s hands caress my cheeks, cupping them, pulling me into him (as if I needed the added magnetism).  Something in between a mewl and a sob forces out of my throat, and I have to pull back as the tears begin to drill down my face.  He repositions his arms so that they’re locked around my waist, and he brings his lips to rest against my forehead as I cry, release the tension that I’ve carried for three fucking years, leaving an absence that hot, dry anger should inhabit but doesn’t.  I cough as my tears abate, and my muscles sag.  The marionette strings finally cut, I fall into him. 

           

 

 

 


End file.
